


Desde El Corazon

by SOMETHINREAL



Category: Band of Brothers
Genre: Dancing Lessons, George is too gay for his own good, M/M, Pre-Slash, Puerto Rico, joe is a salsa instructor, skip is a meddler, this is kind of crack
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-29
Updated: 2019-03-29
Packaged: 2019-12-26 10:46:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,344
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18281339
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SOMETHINREAL/pseuds/SOMETHINREAL
Summary: In retrospect, George really isn’t sure how Skip talked him into this.(alternatively: skip ditches george at his salsa lesson. george finds the man of his dreams.)





	Desde El Corazon

**Author's Note:**

> I've had this idea for the longest time and the actor who plays Joe is Puerto Rican so I figured why the fuck not am I right? ft George and his inability to comprehend the Spanish language

In retrospect, George really isn’t sure how Skip talked him into this. It’s not that he’s not a dancer-- screw that, it’s exactly because he’s not a dancer. And he’s not taking a gap year in Puerto Rico for _ Salsa lessons _ . He’s here because of the program his high school guidance counselor set him up with to help families after the hurricane, to help rebuild houses and fix crops and whatever else he signed up for, and it’s nice. He feels good knowing that he’s helping out, even a little, and that it’ll count for something here and back home. And he does get days off, but he doesn’t want to spend them like  _ this _ . 

( _ You need to live a little _ , Skip had said,  _ We’re in Puerto Rico, you dickhead. Go meet cute caribbean boys. _ )

This is not how he wanted it to go down. Because George does not dance. He has never danced. And he had no intention of dancing. Ever.

( _ Come on _ , Skip had said.  _ It’ll be fun _ , he insisted.)

And George didn’t agree at all. In fact, he’s almost positive that he told Skip to “Choke and die.” In all honesty, George does a lot of things for Skip. Like buying him a large chocolate milk every day for the entirety of tenth grade or agreeing to being his understudy for the school play (which he did manage to get out of, leaving George to take his place), even accompanying him to the Dungeons and Dragons club for a whole semester because he’d had a thing for the only girl there and needed moral support. And Skip can be a very persuasive guy. The previous examples only prove this, but if there is one thing George does not do, it’s dance. 

His body is like five different people’s bodies that all got put together; it doesn’t move right, he’s awkward and uncoordinated, and he doesn’t have rhythm for the life of him. Dance and George have been very different things that have stayed very far away from each other for a long time, and George is okay with that. 

So, explain to him clearly how the hell he finds himself outside the door of a dance studio in the middle of San Juan, being stood up by the one and only Warren ‘Skip’ Muck. 

_ sorry _ , his text read,  _ got the shits, can’t come.  _

_ You fucker _ , is all that George responds with. 

He can’t just up and leave, because not only did Skip somehow make him come to this thing, but he also made him George pay for himself, which he hadn’t the money to pay for in the first place. And George Luz is not a pussy. He’s going to walk his skinny ass in there and make a fool of himself, but be proud about it. At least, he hopes he can do that. 

When he walks in, he realizes he’s definitely going to make a fool of himself, but not just because of the dancing. 

Inside the studio happens to be just about the prettiest man George has ever seen. He’s not huge, but he’s taller than George, with his hair slicked back and a tight tank top contrasting his baggy pants. His face kind of screams  _ don’t fuck with me or I’ll end you. _ He’s not inherently breathtaking, but George has a thing for Latino guys who look like they could kill him. And he’s  _ dancing _ ( _ of course he’s dancing, it’s a dance studio _ , the voice in his head screams, and it sounds strangely like Don, who right now is probably picking up girls and not doing whatever the fuck this is).

“Hola,” he says, pulling Dancer-Man out of his dance-trance. His spanish is bad and he knows it, knows that he’s a disgrace since he comes from a family that speaks mainly Portuguese and Spanish, knows that he sounds like a  _ gringo _ . “Mi nombre es George,” he says. “Er,  _ Jorge _ . Estoy, uh, matriculado(?) en ese clase.” He’s not fluent, and hiss accent sucks, but he’s sure he could get by in a pretty basic conversation. 

Dancer-Man gives him this look that he can’t describe. “I speak fluent English,” he says, in perfect English. Yeah. George expected something like this. “I’m Joe.”

That doesn’t sound right. He’d been expecting something exotic and cool, like Zabdiel or Benito, or even something like Miguel. “Just Joe?”

“I mean some people call me Jose but on paper it’s Joseph. So yeah. Just Joe.” He’s got the hint of an accent, like he moved here from an English speaking country as a teenager. 

George nods, setting his bag down against the wall. He wasn’t sure what to bring, so he just shoved like, three bottles of water, a can of orange soda, and a towel in a backpack just in case. He also hadn’t been sure what to wear, since he hadn’t exactly packed for this type of thing, but he ended up just stealing a pair of Skip’s joggers and a t-shirt. Based on Joe’s outfit, he hadn’t done so bad. “I um, have a friend? Also registered? But he can’t come.”

“Looks like you’re in luck,  _ Jorge _ ,” Joe says. “Because now it’s just you and me.”

George thinks he might die. “ _ What _ ?”

“You and your friend were the only people enlisted in this class. So it’s just you and me. _Tu y yo._ _Comprende_?” Joe doesn’t look like this fazes him, in fact, he looks amused by it. “Have you ever danced before?” Joe asks him, bending down to pick up a little Mp3 player, and _Christ_ , he’s flexible. He doesn’t even bend his _knees_ , he can just bend in half like that.

“Uhhhhh,” George says, voice high, dragging it out to make it seem like he’s actually thinking. 

“No, well that’s fine. That’s why I’m here, is it not?” George doesn’t know why, but he nods. “You know you gotta come over here, right? You can’t dance against the wall.” Right. George takes a few steps forward until he’s in the middle, in front of the mirror. He looks small and awkward next to Joe, who’s tall and muscled and probably really good at everything George is not. “We’re gonna warm up first, then I’ll teach you the basics, and then we can really get into it, yeah? It’s easy, promise. Little kids do it.”

George feels the need to point out that little kids are  _ raised _ doing it, and he’s almost twenty and he’s never moved to a beat  _ ever _ , so it’s a bit different, but he doesn’t say anything. Instead he nods his head. “Good,” Joe says. “This is the easiest part.”

 

-

 

It absolutely is not the easiest part. George feels like his heart is going to beat out of his chest and his throat is so dry it tastes like it’s bleeding. He thanks himself for bringing those extra water bottles. If he had known that it would have been like this, he never would have even  _ considered _ this. And they haven’t even started dancing. 

Joe, on the other hand, has hardly broken a sweat. 

“Do you  _ ever _ exercise?”

“No,” George pants, hunched over. “Never. Never ever.  _ Nunca _ .”

“ _ Bueno _ ,” Joe says, in disbelief. Was he expecting any more though? George finds it hard to believe when he looks and walks the way he does. No one with his demeanor exercises. 

“Why did you make me do that?” George asks. Then he guzzles the entire water bottle and makes an attempt to throw in the little bin, but misses. Joe picks it up and gets it in without even looking. 

“Because I don’t want you to hurt yourself.” George knows that it’s his job but his sad little gay heart squeezes. He thinks this is how he’s going to die for sure.  _ Death by Dance Instructor.  _  It’s not the worst way to go, especially if his instructor looks like  _ that _ . “Because I can’t pay for it if you hurt yourself. Now. Should we start?”

George’s face turns redder. “I have to warm you, I have no rhythm whatsoever.”

Joe looks him over one last time before he grins. 

“More fun for me.”

 

-

 

George finds it very hard to be mad at anything with Joe’s hand on his waist and his eyes boring into George’s own. He’d originally said no to this, to doing it partnered, but Joe had somehow talked him into it. Honestly, it was probably less that Joe persuaded him and more that the idea of it was tantalizing enough for George to say yes. He does however, recall Joe saying partnered Salsa is easier, but he’s no so sure. 

Not only does he find it difficult to be mad, but he also finds it difficult to breathe. 

“See?” Joe says, voice like honey poured over gravel. “You can dance. All you needed to do was let someone lead you.” George still feels like he’s very bad at this, but he takes Joe’s word for it, follow his steps: forward, middle, back, middle, repeat. “Now move your hips,” Joe says, grinning, tiger-like. “Like a  _ Boricua _ .”

And George doesn’t do that, but he tries, just to make Joe happy. “Well,” Joe says, just as the song finishes. It’s something about having a good time in Havana when someone else is having a shitty time in Miami. “That’s our class.”

George almost finds himself disappointed. “Thank you,” he says, genuinely. And as much as he doesn’t do this, he can’t lie and say he didn’t enjoy himself. 

“ _ Mi placer _ ,” Joe says, and it’s almost cocky. “Hey, George,” he calls, just when George is about to leave. “We have another salsa class tomorrow at seven if you want to come. I’m instructing.”

“Oh?” George says. 

“Just thought I’d let you know. There’s a moderate dress code for that one though. Just jeans and a shirt works.”

“Alright,” George tells him, cheeks warm. “I’ll think about it.”

 

-

 

“You’re going  _ back _ ?” 

It had been a shock to George too, when he realized that he was actually going to do the thing.  Because for his whole life, George has never done anything like this, let alone even  _ thought _ about doing anything like this, let alone even  _ thought _ about  _ liking _ something like this. Leave it up to a hot Puerto Rican dance instructor to ruin everything for him. 

George just shrugs. He tries to feign a nonchalance about it, but he can’t, and Skip is his best friend, so he sees right through him. 

“There’s no way you’re going back because you liked the dancing,” Skip says. And George had ended up liking the dancing, but he’s right, that’s not why at all. “So what was it then, a hot guy in the class?”

“I was the only one there, since you were an asshole and left me alone.”

“So it was the instructor, then,” Skip decides, and George feels like it’s written all over his forehead that Skip is right. “Fuck, it  _ was _ the instructor!” All George can do is groan and flop down onto the couch of the apartment they’re renting. “What’s he like?”

“He’s tall but not super tall, you know? Taller than me.”

“Everyone is taller than you,” Skip tells him, and George flips him off even though he won’t care. 

“I don’t know. He’s just hot. And a good dancer. And his voice sounds like honey poured over gravel. And he invited me back.” 

“How the fuck did you manage to exclude the fact that he invited you when you said you were going to another class?” George just shrugs. It wasn’t important in his head. 

“Actually, it wasn’t really an invitation. It was more like, ‘hey, we’ve got another class tomorrow if you’re interested.’ Nothing special. It wasn’t as if he was like flirting or anything.”

“Yeah,” Skip says. “Okay, sure, George.”

 

-

 

When George shows up at the dance studio, clad in a pair of baggy jeans and a fake Guess shirt he bought from a street vendor that time he spilled beans down the front of himself, he’s a little shocked to find the studio door locked and a sign in the window that says  _ CERRADO _ in red. Then the irrational part of his brain fires up and he realizes that he might be murdered by this dance instructor, and he was right when he thought that Joe might be the end of him. 

The rational part of his mind kicks in only when he sees Joe walking towards the door with a similar outfit to Joe’s, a smirk that could be read as a smile on his face. 

“I thought you said there was a class at seven?” George says cautiously, because he’s still a bit scared that Joe will murder him. 

“I lied. Studio is closed on Sundays.” 

“Why?”

“Because I wanted to take you out for dinner.” Joe shrugs, like it doesn’t matter. 

Oh.  _ Ohhhh _ . George can work with this. George can  _ definitely _ work with this. He teeters on his feet, hoping that the color in his cheeks can be written off as a little too much sun in places he didn’t slather on cream. 

“Besides,” Joe says. “What kind of fucking dance studio has a fancy dress code?”

“Well in America--”

“What kind of fucking Puerto Rican dance studio has a fancy dress code?” Joe rephrases, and then he nudges George with his arm and they start walking. 

“Valid point,” George says, nudging Joe back. “I find myself incredibly gullible under the pressure of impressing and attractive people.”

The smirk that Joe gives is enough to churn George’s whole stomach. It’s like he can find a way to worm his way into George without even trying-- with just a look. “So you think I’m attractive?” he asks, smirking. 

“ _ Yeah _ ,” George answers, figuring there’s no reason in deny what’s painfully obvious anyways. “You think you aren’t?”

“Would it sound cocky if I said no?” 

“A little, but that doesn’t change anything.” George lets his eyes wander a little, trailing slowly in awe of the scene around him. Colourful buildings line the street, some of the paint chipped away, some of the sides tinted with rust orange from metal balconies above, but still breathtaking in their own way. “Do you ever get sick of looking at it?” George asks. “This city is so beautiful.”

“I was born here,” Joe says. “My parents moved me to America when I was a few years old so I could have a better life there, more opportunities and whatnot. But when I was seventeen my grandad passed away so we had to move back to take care of my grandma. I’ve always loved Puerto Rico, I’ve always loved being Puerto Rican, and I don’t think that will change. So no, I guess I don’t.”

George doesn’t know what to say. Finally he decides on: “My parents moved to America from Portugal when my mom was pregnant for the same reason as pretty much everyone else’s. Most of my family lives there, some are living in/from Spanish speaking countries, which is why I speak really shitty Spanish. I’ve never been to Portugal but I would love to go.”

Joe smiles at him, softly, and it almost doesn’t suit him. “Come on. We’re almost there.”

 

-

 

The restaurant Joe takes him to is actually just somebody’s house that they’ve cleaned up and put a couple tables into, but it smells amazing and the owner hugs George like she knows him. Joe says some things to her, too much and too quickly that George doesn’t really understand, but he can pick out the words  _ table, food _ , and  _ how have you been? _

Then: “ _ Tu novio _ ?” the woman asks. She’s middle aged and a little pudgy, with grease on her shirt, but it’s nothing George judges. She’s kind and welcoming. 

Joe just laughs and shakes his head. “ _ No. Pero, eventualmente, ya veremos. _ ”

George’s Spanish are seriously lacking. He has virtually no idea what they’re saying, so he just cocks his head to the side. The lady just smiles and shakes her had. “Nothing,” she says, accent thick. “Please, sit.”

Once seated: “Something to drink?”

“ _ Jugo de  _ _manzana?_ ” George says, shamefully feeling proud of himself. From the other side of the table Joe grins. 

“Cafe con leche,” he says, and then hands George a menu and the woman walks away. It’s a piece of printer paper laminated with sellotape but it gets the job done. “If you need any help with the menu, let me know,” Joe says. 

“Do you know her?” George asks, because he’s curious. He knows it’s different here-- people are friendly, everyone is practically family even if you’ve known each other for twenty minutes, but it feels different. George has a hunch.

Joe nods. “Grew up down the street. She’s like a second mother to me  _ and _ she’s a great cook. Besides, I wanted to take you somewhere we could trust.”

“That’s really nice,” George tells him, and he means it. 

Soon, they’ve ordered and gotten their food. George had a very limited idea of what anything was, but with Joe’s help he managed to order himself Mofongo and some rice and beans. And it’s probably the best meal George has ever had in his life. 

“Oh my God,” George says as soon as the first bite is in his mouth. It’s burning all of the tastebuds off his tongue but he doesn’t even care. 

“Is it good?” Joe asks. He’s got pork and rice and beans that looks equally as delicious. 

“I am ruined for all other food.” 

“ _ That _ good?” Joe looks proud of himself for bringing George here, and honestly, if it was the other way around and George had brought Joe somewhere and he liked it  _ this _ much, George would have the same damn look on his face.

“ _ That _ good.” George almost moans around the mashed plantain in his mouth but manages to stop in time before he makes more of an embarrassment of himself than he already has within the past hour alone. 

After a while, they finish eating, and they have to go. They say goodbye to Gloria, as George finds out her name is, and she kisses him once on each cheek before he steps out the door. 

Their night doesn’t end there. 

They end up walking the streets for hours, or at least until it’s starting to get dark, just talking. They talk about everything. About childhood memories and firsts and awkward situations and  _ what would you do if--? _ George isn’t even sure if it’s safe to be walking around like this but finds he doesn’t care. He’s felt more comfortable with Joe than he’s probably felt with anyone in his whole life-- at least like this. 

They walk with their shoulders brushing, faces warm and grins wide. 

Eventually, they reach the studio.

“I had a nice time tonight,” George tells Joe genuinely, and Joe smiles this kind of smile that says like he might be doubting it. “Really. I mean, I started out thinking you’d murder me, but besides that, it was really nice.”

“I had a good time too,” Joe says. His hand brushes George’s but doesn’t hold on, not yet. “We should meet up again. How much longer do you have here?”

“Four months,” George answers. Four months. Four long months to build on something. Joe nods, and then it gets silent between them. It’s agonizing, in its own special way. Sometime in the midst of it, when George can’t take the deafening sound of buzzing cicadas anymore: “So are you gonna kiss me or are you not that kind of guy?”

“I thought you’d never ask.”

And then Joe is  _ kissing _ him. And Joe isn’t that tall, but George still has to lean up on the tips of his toes to reach him. His lips are chapped and taste like the coffee he’d had at dinner, but he’s warm and inviting and his hands are strong where they hold George’s waist.

And out loud, George will never admit it, but he thanks Skip for ditching his Salsa lesson.    
  
  


 

**Author's Note:**

> gloria says: "Your boyfriend?"  
> Joe replies: "No. But, eventually, we'll see."


End file.
